


Congress

by sharptoothed



Category: Dangerous Liaisons (1988), Les liaisons dangereuses | Dangerous Liaisons - Choderlos de Laclos
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, look theres no liaisons fic ever so i had to do something about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharptoothed/pseuds/sharptoothed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valmont is not a man with marketable skills, per se, but there are things at which he is very, very good indeed. </p>
<p>Madame de Tourvel is unfamiliar with all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congress

**Author's Note:**

> look sometimes youre in a fandom with nothing. nothing at all. youve read every fic on the internet for this fucking fandom. but youre obsessed. so you make your own way

Her skin scorches everywhere he touches her.

He’s worked for this for months, for the heat and the tremors and the sharpness of her breathing; _la Présidente de Tourvel,_ looking up into his face with a need that borders on despair. He is straddling her, and their hips are a hair’s breadth apart, and it is difficult not to rut down into her like an animal - but he is not her husband doing his duty, and frankly if he’d wanted to take her that way he would’ve saved himself the time and simply done it. He is known for his skills, dare he say _artistry,_ when it comes down to sin; the beauty beneath him is to be savored.

His lips move to her neck, then her shoulder, then her collarbone; his hand trails up her side and strokes, just barely there, over her breast. His lips follow his hand, tongue grazing over the top hem of her bodice, and she lets out a soft, shaking sigh, breathes out _Sébastien,_ whispers something so low he can barely make it out.

“I missed that, love.”

Her breath catches a little, and she clears her throat, tries to speak up with a quivering tongue. “Don’t - don’t tease. Please. Four months -”

He laughs low in his throat and nods, kisses her long and deep. “Alright. Alright.” She’s not wearing muslin over the top of her dress (when did she stop?) and it’s so easy to ease her breast out of its confines and so, so easy to take it into his mouth and _suck_ and she _mewls,_ Lord, verging on a cry that has him starving for her. He reaches back behind her and starts unlacing her corset, pulling her loose of all the ridiculous accoutrements women are pushed into, and in a fevered way she helps him, easing glassy-eyed out of everything as quickly as she can. It takes some time but it is done, and when she is naked she is on him, pressed into his lap with an urgency she barely seems to understand.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but she’s pulling the ribbon from his hair and running her fingers through the length of it, stretching herself up the few inches it takes to kiss him as hard as she can. They are breathing the same air and he groans into her mouth, whispers _Marianne_ and she sighs at the taste of her name. He draws back for air and teases down her back with the lace of his sleeve, making her shudder.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

She shakes her head, looks at him in something like disbelief. “What would I know about it? What would I know about this - what did I know before you?”

There is a point to be had there. He nods and kisses her shoulder, trails down, down, down. Her breath comes shallow and she’s gasping softly every time his lips brush skin; she is so impossibly hot to the touch he can barely stand it. He is on the floor now, tongue ghosting up the inside of her thigh, and God, he’s so close he can smell her, he’s certain he’s going mad -

“What are you doing?”

Sébastien blinks, looks up at her mildly. “What?”

“You - that’s - why are you on the floor? Not that I’m not - not that I’m not enjoying it, I’m just...well I’m just a bit confused is all.”

He is having great difficulty believing what he’s hearing. “...Has your husband never done this?”

“Never done _what?”_

He looks her determinedly in the face. He’d known, certainly, before he started, that she was a prude and her husband was likely just as bad - but _this,_ this is simply absurd, to think that the one man in all France allowed to make love to Marianne de Tourvel would not take advantage of his opportunity to the very fullest of his abilities. He traces his thumb in circles over the inside of her thigh. “Used his mouth on you, for your pleasure. Here.”

His lips are upon her, his tongue working over the folds of her sex, and she clutches his hair so hard he gasps. His eyes flutter closed and he moves deeper, lightheaded, drinking in the taste and the scent and the feel of her on his mouth. She whimpers, high and pure; picks up a rhythm in the rock of her hips, just shy of grinding against his face. Lord, he can’t make himself get enough of her.

What starts as easy exploration gives way to the firm press of his tongue inside her, and the sound of her gasping his name draws a groan from his chest. He moves progressively harder; a sharp little dig of his chin drives his nose up against her clitoris and her thighs tighten so tightly against his head that for a moment he struggles to breathe. He comes up panting for air and she lets out a whine of dissatisfaction, not even looking at him, just squirming until he returns to his task.

He can aid her, he thinks, better than he is already. “Here,” he murmurs, “right here,” and he eases her right hand from his hair and guides it down between her legs, pressing it hard against her clit. “Circles,” he mutters, “‘s all you need,” and he is so desperate to have his mouth on her again that it’s all he can get out, his tongue’s inside her again and she is positively rutting against him now, moaning at every breath. He moves faster and faster and finally she comes, crying out so sharp and high that the sound verges on a scream.

It is a while before he pulls away; Marianne pushes against him through her orgasm, keeps gasping for him through the little aftershocks that rock her body. Finally he comes up for air, resting his head against her knee and grinning up at her in a way that he knows is entirely ridiculous. She looks down at him, panting, and bursts into laughter, giggling like a child. Sébastien laughs with her, pressing his face against her skin and shaking his head. He’s warm inside and it feels like he’s melting.

“I can safely guarantee,” Marianne says, when they’ve composed themselves, “that my husband has never done _anything_ like _that.”_

The faint vulgarity of it undoes him, and he's laughing again, caught between genuine mirth and utter, utter disbelief at what he's just accomplished. “Have your marriage annulled.”

They are once again completely lost in the humor of it, and their contact devolves once again into congress, tangled within each other, and God almighty, Sébastien de Valmont may well be in love.

 


End file.
